


My Golden One

by tyelkormofuckyou



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, M/M, golden hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:47:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26212150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyelkormofuckyou/pseuds/tyelkormofuckyou
Summary: Fëanor needs golden hair, and he gets it.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Galadriel | Artanis
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	My Golden One

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry but I’m really a sucker for Fëanor hitting on his nephews and nieces. Enjoy.

She had beautiful hair. Nerdanel's red curls or Eärwen's silvery locks faded in the glow that radiated from those golden strands. She was slim and tall, usually in a simple, white dress.  
Her hair looked as if it was shining. Fëanáro knew it was only a reflection of the Trees’ light, but the illusion was so beautiful that he himself did not want to believe it. The glow of the Trees was said to have been trapped amid these golden waves.

_____

The first time was in the garden.  
The Noldorin royal family was having a picnic in the light of Laurelin. The day was warm, the sky was clear. Turukáno and Findaráto went on a trip to the Pelóri Mountains together, but the rest of the royal family was spending the time together at Finwë's request.  
Young Kanafinwë casually pulled the strings of his harp, which was still a hundred times more beautiful than most of the music that was usually played heard in the palace. Little Irissë screamed at the overgrown puppy that her favorite cousin Tyelko had received from the Hunter himself. Fingolfin and Anairë were sitting under a tree, lazily watching the youngest son.  
It was then that twenty-year-old Artanis ran out of the shadows, wanting to catch a butterfly - and the glow of her hair blinded the Crown Prince, making him unable to embroider anymore.  
He stood up immediately.  
He walked over to the girl who crouched down by the flower bed, admiring the insect's wings.  
“Hi, Nerwen. As I can see, do you quite enjoy watching the butterflies?”  
"Yes," Artanis nodded.  
"I know someone who hath an entire butterfly collection, and I could ask him to show you around," suggested Fëanáro.  
“Thank you, uncle! It's very nice of you.”  
“Anytime, it’s a pleasure. I find joy watching young people gain knowledge and develop their passions.”  
Artanis smiled broadly at the Prince, but then looked again at the blue butterfly sitting among the tulips.  
“Oh, Nerwen, just one more thing ... Wouldn’t you like to give me a strand of hair?”  
The blonde looked away from the flowers.  
“Why would you need them, uncle?”  
Fëanáro looked into her blue eyes.  
“They are beautiful.”  
Artanis rubbed her chin in thought.  
"I hope you won’t get angry, Uncle, but I'd rather not cut them. I like them a lot and I don't want them to be uneven, and my mom would get upset. Irissë will surely be happy to give some to you, though, because she does not care about her appearance at all.”  
Fëanáro looked at his laughing niece, rolling with Huan in a pool of mud. Nolofinwë ran up to her and began a lecture.  
“But she has black hair, you know? I need golden, like yourth.”  
Artanis looked deep into his eyes.  
“Unfortunately, I can't help you, Uncle.”  
Fëanáro frowned but said nothing.  
_____

For the second time, it happened in Alqualondë.  
Fëanáro came there on the occasion of King Olwë's conception and, of course, met his fifty-year-old granddaughter at the ball.  
"Well met, Uncle," she greeted in a cool tone. Fëanáro bowed slightly and eyed her up and down. She was still very young, but beautiful, and her hair was longer than ever before.  
“Well met, Artanis. Will you honor me, my lady?” Fëanáro smiled charmingly, bowed again and extended his hand to her. Artanis looked at it hesitantly. She noticed a gold signet ring with a black stone and wondered for a moment if the Crown Prince had made it himself. She looked up at her uncle, already wanting to refuse, but Arafinwë – who was passing nearby – slightly nodded his head, with a stern look in his eyes. Don't ruin the relationship.  
“Of course, Your Royal Highness.” She didn't call him uncle this time, Fëanáro noticed.  
She held out her hand and he put his arm around her slender waist. She smelled nice.  
"Nerwen ..." He looked into her eyes, elegantly leading the first steps. He was a good dancer, but – as in any other area of life – he did not allow his partner to take a step beyond the choreography that he himself dictated.  
She felt his gaze piercing her. She wanted to tell him to stop looking at her like that, but she couldn’t say anything. They swirled on the dance floor without a word.  
Finally he spoke.  
“Nerwen, I insist. Please.”  
She covered her eyes with her eyelids, long lashes casting a shadow on her rosy cheeks. She wanted to avoid any contact with these silver eyes.  
She prayed to Varda to make the orchestra stop playing. In fact, after a while the waltz stopped.  
One dance is enough.  
“Your Royal Highness.”  
She pulled out of his arms, gave a gentle curtsy and disappeared into the crowd.

_____

“Artafindë, is it?”  
The blond nodded uncertainly.  
“Yes, uncle. Most, however, call me Findaráto.”  
Fëanáro gently but firmly took the boy's chin in his strong hand.  
“I haven't seen you for a long time, Artafindë. You were a toddler the last time I met you.”  
Findaráto said nothing as Fëanáro lifted his head higher and eyed him closely, almost as if he was buying something in a store. The boy felt a bit confined, feeling the elder Noldo's hand on his shoulder.  
“Looks like my sons were right. You actually look pretty feminine,” Fëanáro decided, brushing his thumb over the blonde's lower lip.  
"Uncle ..." Findaráto gasped, almost inaudibly. The Crown Prince's hand slowly slipped from his shoulder to the side and onto his waist. “I feel uncomfortable ...”  
“Feminine but quite acceptable.” Fëanáro tangled his right hand in his nephew's golden curls. The other was still gently – but to Ingoldo, almost painfully – massaging the boy's waist. “You have beautiful hair, Artafindë ... and lovely lips. I wonder if you can choose your words just as perfectly when you speak to your people as Eru had chosen colors and shapes creating the mouth that speaks. Or maybe, as I’ve heard you can use these lips differently …” Fëanáro paused, as if in thought. Findaráto, however, felt an ethereal touch on his hip – and froze.  
Fëanáro laughed. Ingoldo realized he didn’t know if the butterfly touch was even real. “You don't have to be so tense, my sweet Findaráto. I’ve only heard that you can sing well.” He withdrew his left hand, but the right put Ingoldo’s shiny hair behind his pointy ear. "One lookth at you with thome pleasure ... even with that feminine form. Most would thay that you should exercise more, since even Irissë is more muscular than you are.”  
Findaráto frowned unnoticeably.  
“Of courthe, don't overdo it ... Your wouldn't look good very muthcled. It wouldn’t fit you at all.” Fëanáro's gaze shifted over his body. “Thome of the Eldar even prefer boyth to be thinner, golden-haired and … feminine.” He smiled once more. “Goodbye, my Artafindë.”

_____

The third time was at the palace.  
Artanis was on her way to Turukáno's chambers. She was walking fast, the click of her heels multiplied by the echo in the hallway.  
“Nerwen.”  
She stopped but didn't turn around. There was complete silence until she felt a warm breath on her neck. It smelled of white-hot iron.  
“Nerwen. Tell me what do you want. I will give you everything you desire.” Long-fingered hands rested on her waist. “I yearn to create something, something more beautiful than anything in the whole Arda, and you will be my muse. Don't you want to be talked about both at courts and among the commoners at the markets? Everyone will admire you, without exception. Please.”  
He doesn't demand, he just asks.  
“I want no delight and no fame. I want power.”  
“I shall give you wealth and prestige. I will make you a member of the Council of the Noldor, or more.”  
“You can't give me anything. You are the Crown Prince, you’re the one to inherit the throne.”  
“I'll give you everything you need.” The hands slid a little lower.  
Artanis couldn't help herself. A blurry image of a half-naked artist bent over a golden-haired woman flashed through her mind, fire burning their insides and joining their wet bodies.  
“No, Fëanáro. You won't get a single hair.”

_____

The soft clank of scissors was the only sound that could be heard in the room. Golden curls fell into the black-haired prince’s palms. Delicate fingertips brushed the exposed alabaster neck.  
Findaráto shuddered.  
“What will you tell to your family? Hardly anyone has their hair so short.”  
“I just wanted to cut them to see what I’d look like. I will leap off the page.”  
“You already do.”  
"Thanks ... thank you," Findaráto stuttered.  
Fëanáro laughed.  
“Always so delightfully modest. You are beautiful, Artafindë.”  
Findaráto realized that such a compliment from the lips of the greatest artist in history, the Crown Prince of the Noldor, who had once criticized Aulë's work and with whose opinion the Vala agreed, was truly something special. Still, he felt humiliated in the Prince’s presence in every way. Maybe Nerwen was right not to give him her hair. Maybe he shouldn't have agreed to do it either? Eru alone knows what Fëanáro will do with them.  
The last cut. Fëanáro handed him the mirror. Findaráto glanced at his reflection. With his hair halfway down his neck, he looked completely different, but just as gorgeous.  
Fëanáro put the shiny locks in a box.  
“Do you like them?”  
"It is ... quite nice," Findaráto replied. “They will grow back anyway.”  
Fëanáro pushed a strand behind his ear.  
“You're not telling anyone, are you?”  
Findaráto sensed a dark note in his voice. Nerwen was right. He suddenly felt that giving his hair to his uncle would end up badly ... and for a lot of people.  
This was the first time Findaráto had predicted the future.  
“No, I’m not.”  
“Good boy. You should find someone for yourthelf, those divinely blue eyes shouldn’t go to waste. You're too gorgeous to be single.”  
“Thank you, Uncle.”  
“Both you and the world shall see, that what I shall create using your hair will be the most beautiful thing that will come from the hands of a Child of Ilúvatar. I will remember you.”  
He leaned over Findaráto. The blonde felt his smell, a blend of hot iron, cologne and blood, and almost expected, and almost wanted him to ...  
“Fly, my golden one.”


End file.
